Robin's Nest

Anecdote for Fathers

by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fresh and fair to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mold
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to glade.

Birds warbled round me -- and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.

'Now tell me, had you rather be,'
I said, and took him by the arm,
'On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?'

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still he held me by the arm,
And said, 'At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.'

'Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why.' --
'I cannot tell, I do not know,' --
Why, this is strange,' said I;

'For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must one reason be
Why you would  change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.'

At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
'Why, Edward, tell me why?'

His head he raised -- there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain --
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply;
'At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reason why.'

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.

Raise the curtain light the lights

After my early initiation into the world of greasepaint and spotlights it is no surprise that I fell in love with the theatre.

Being a member of the Little Theatre in Rhyl certainly helped feed my passion.

I enjoyed being backstage, or up in the lighting box, or just as a member of the audience, as much as I enjoyed being onstage.

When I moved over to the Rhyl Journal I had more opportunities to indulge my passion.

As I have said before I had grown up with theatre and performers. In the summer it became quite normal to see comedians, musicians and other entertainers in our shop.

We were just a stone’s throw from the promenade and Dad stocked a full range of Leichner stage makeup (which came in handy when I started treading the boards).

Heinz Burt, Harry Secombe, Morton Fraser’s Harmonica Gang, the Beatles and many more brought the magic of the stage into our shop.

But Rhyl had far more than the professionals at the established theatres, the Pavilion, the Queen’s, the Amphitheatre and the Coliseum.

It was a hotspot of amateur drama from am dram groups to operatic societies and even school drama productions.

I had plenty of opportunity to review professionals and amateurs during my three years in my home town.

At the Little Theatre Joe Holroyd and Angela Day always drilled into us that the only real difference between professional performers and amateurs was that amateurs did not have to make a living out of it.

I can still remember Angela saying: “If people pay to see you act then you have to give them their money’s worth.

“It’s no good saying ‘We’re only amateurs’ – you are actors and they are paying to see you.”

It is a maxim I have always gone by whether I have been onstage or in the audience.

As a reviewer I have always made allowances for the amount of experience the performers show. After all you could not judge a school’s nativity play on the basis of a West End production of Jesus Christ Superstar.

Even in professional theatre there are levels of performance. Actors such as Ian McKellen, John Thaw, Siân Phillips or Judi Dench will almost always outshine the juvenile lead in a touring weekly rep group.

It did mean that when I went to review Rhyl Liberty Players, or the Little Theatre’s Group 200 or the Rhyl and District Amateur Operatic Society I expected a certain standard of professionalism.

I proffered bouquets when they were deserved but I had brickbats to hand if the performance was below par.

I remember being particularly scathing about one amateur dramatic group when they performed an am-dram favourite (I think it was Blithe Spirit).

The play was poorly performed and poorly presented and I did not pull my punches.

From a stuttering star to lacklustre lighting I let rip.

Naturally I picked up on anything which was properly presented, even if it was just the character of a maidservant who did little more than bring in a tray of tea and sandwiches, or open the curtains to let the “sunlight” in.

When the paper was published that week I checked to see what the subs had done with my stories, after all that is how you learn.

Some had been tweaked to bring up a point I had not seen as important, others remained verbatim.

When I got to the review of the play, however, I was appalled to see that it bore little resemblance to the piece I had written and was now just an anodyne puff piece which did little more than say: “Didn’t they do well”.

I went straight to see Brian, the editor, a very affable man, and told him that I was annoyed because someone who clearly had no idea of the theatre had subbed my review into an almost unrecognisable piece of hagiography.

Once I had finished he said: “I changed it. After all they are just an amateur group.”

Naturally he had taken the wind out of my sails but I still managed to make my point about there being no real difference between amateur and professional.

Brian agreed with me but also pointed out that the actors were also readers and sometimes advertisers.

In the end we came to an agreement that I would tone down some of my harsher judgments in future but that if a review was dramatically changed then my name would not be pinned to it.

Brian and I remained friends and I made up to him for my comment about “having no idea of theatre” by giving him a dozen mackerel for his freezer when next we did some fishing from the Rhyl Yacht Club launch.

After that I did lighten up in my reviews and always looked for some good even if the majority was bad.

I still apply my thoughts about giving your money’s worth, however.

Peace

By George Herbert (1593-1633)

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And asked, if Peace were there,

A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:

Go seek elsewhere.

I did; and going did a rainbow note:

Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace’s coat:

I will search out the matter.

But while I looked the clouds immediately

Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden and did spy

A gallant flower,

The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,

Peace at the root must dwell.

But when I digged, I saw a worm devour

What showed so well.

At length I met a rev’rend good old man;

Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase

Of flock and fold.

He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save

His life from foes.

But after death out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;

Which many wond’ring at, got some of those

To plant and set.

It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse

Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse

That virtue lies therein;

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth

By flight of sin.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,

And grows for you;

Make bread of it: and that repose,

And peace, which ev’ry where

With so much earnestness you do pursue

Is only there.

Hope Is Not Lost

by Jessica Millsaps

When the desperation hit

When the people cried in the streets

When everything felt at loss

Hope stayed, even though fleeing would be easier

When the eyes were full of tears

When kids and family were torn apart

By that last desperate gasp

Hope tried

When all else gave up

When all else backed off

When people lost all they had

Hope flew

When they cried

When the world was shocked with desperation and despair

When nothing seemed good

Hope worked

When those four (sic) planes crashed

When the buildings fell

When the lives were lost

Hope was there

Hope was only a tiny glimmer

Hope was still there

She ran to those who needed her

She worked to help

When all else failed

Hope didn’t

She flew through us all

Letting us know, we still had her

We just needed to look hard enough

Hope was there

Hope remembers.

Mystics Are the Sons And Daughters Of Silence

by Kenneth Maswabi

We consume Silence

We are consumed by Silence

We thrive in Silence

Silence thrives in us.

We are the sons and daughters of Silence.

We are the emptiness that walks the path of eternity

The shadow of things to come

We are the silent warriors

The sons and daughters of Light

We have paved the eternal path

We are the ray of hope in the land of big egos

We look with our hearts

And we see with our hearts

We look far into the world of consciousness

We are drawn into the unknown

We seek the Truth

We reveal the Truth

Love is the Truth

Within and beyond existence

Within and beyond logic.

The Fathers

by Edwin Muir

Our fathers all were poor,

Poorer our fathers’ fathers;

Beyond we dare not look.

We, the sons, keep store

Of tarnished gold that gathers

Around us from the night,

Record it in this book

That, when the line is drawn,

Credit and creditor gone,

Column and figure flown,

Will open into light.

Archaic fevers shake

Our healthy flesh and blood

Plumped in the passing day

And fed with pleasant food.

The fathers’ anger and ache

Will not, will not away

And leave the living alone

But on our careless brows

Faintly their furrows engrave

Like veinings in a stone,

Breathe in the sunny house

Nightmares of blackened bone,

Cellar and choking cave.

Panics and furies fly

Through our unhurried veins,

Heavenly lights and rains,

Purify heart and eye,

Past agonies purify

And lay the sullen dust.

The angers will not away.

We hold our fathers’ trust,

Wrong, riches, sorrow and all

Until they topple and fall,

And fallen let in the day.

The Ass and the Lamb

by Ignacy Krasicki

“How hard is my fate!

What sorrows await,”

Said the Ass to the Sheep, “my deplorable state!

Cold, naked, ill-fed,

I sleep in a shed

And the snow, wind and rain come in over my head.

All this day did I pass

In a yard without grass —

What a pity that I was created an Ass!

As for Master, he sat

By the fire, with the Cat;

And they both looked as you do,

Contented and fat.

Your nice coat of wool.

So elastic and full,

Makes you much to be envied, — aye, more than the Bull!”

“How can you pretend,”

Said his poor bleating friend,

“To complain? Let me silence to you recommend.

My sorrows are deep,”

Continued the sheep,

And her eyes looked as if she were ready to weep.

“I expect — ’tis no fable, —

To be dragged from the stable.

And to-morrow, perhaps, be cut up for the table.

Now you, with docility

Strength and civility, —

Will live some years longer, in all probability.

So, no envy I beg.

For I’ll bet you an egg

You will carry the spinach to eat with my leg.”

The situation of those we envy is often much worse than our own.

(Translated from the Polish)

Early debut with not a word spoken

As far as I can tell my early involvement in theatrical productions, mainly as part of the audience rather than taking an active part, are linked to Wrexham, a place I have never lived.

Mind you my first appearance in public saw me in the starring role with members of my family in the supporting cast and the venue was one of the finest in Wrexham — St Giles, the parish church.

A 19th century image of St Giles in Wreham.

I was a bit young, even for a juvenile lead, and I didn’t really have many lines.

The occasion was my baptism and I was only a few weeks old.

My father was managing a chemist shop in Liverpool at this time but had only taken the post two or three months before my birth. Before that the family had lived just outside Wrexham where he had managed a local pharmacy.

I have always said that I may have been born in England (at least it was in Liverpool which has always made me proud of that city) but I was conceived in Wales.

Another reason for the Wrexham venue was that my Lloyd grandparents were living there at the time (my grandfather was a civil servant and my grandmother had a stationery shop in Lampbit Street).

It was also where my father was born and grew up.

My next memory of a theatrical venue was again in Wrexham. I was only about six or seven (it was the late 50s a year or so after we moved to Rhyl).

The occasion was a performance by an amateur dramatic group which included my father’s cousin Raymond Morgan.

I don’t remember what the play was, although I seem to remember I enjoyed it.

The only true memory I have is that cousin Raymond played a character called the High Cockalorum and was in a bright, multi-coloured costume and I believe at one point he came into the audience and cavorted in the aisles.

It is strange that even at an early age some memories are embedded in your mind.

My theatrical links with Wrexham continued.

My grandfather (Lloyd) was an excellent violinist. He even took his violin with him to France when he went with the Liverpool Pals in World War 1.

He joined a concert party called the Verey Lights, and entertained many units just behind the front line. He also carried out his “daytime job” as a signaller.

After the war he set up his own little group (I think it was a quartet) and they played at tea dances and at dance halls.

He never turned professional but when he settled in Wrexham he used to play in the orchestra for the local amateur operatic society.

We went to at least three performances at the Wrexham college.

The one that sticks most in my mind is Oklahoma and to this day I can hear the mournful notes of Poor Jud is Dead, with the Surrey with the Fringe on Top providing a jaunty undertone.

I believe another performance was South Pacific and again I still know a number of the songs.

The third has slipped my mind.

We used to drive over from Rhyl, my brother, sister and I being smartly dressed for the occasion and seated in the back of the family car.

On the way back my parents folded up a travelling rug and laid it on the floor behind the front seats and, while my brother and sister curled up in the corners of the back seat I was quite happy as I fell asleep in the space between the front and back seats.

It is a knack I have always had, being able to drop off wherever I happened to be when I was tired.

I even slept at the office one night after a celebration to mark the end of a complete refurbishment of the editorial department.

Then again I am once more getting ahead of myself.

This early love of the theatre was then reinforced by my English teacher and I felt completely at home when I joined the Rhyl Little Theatre.

This also stood me in good stead on various newspapers when I used to do many of the theatrical reviews, professional and amateur.

In fact I went head to head with an editor over a somewhat less than kind review of an amateur drama group.

I will save that for a more appropriate time.

As a famous cartoon show used to end:

“That’s all folks!”

A Sea Dirge

by Lewis Carroll

There are certain things – as, a spider, a ghost,

The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three –

That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most

Is a thing they call the Sea.

Pour some salt water over the floor –

Ugly I’m sure you’ll allow it to be:

Suppose it extended a mile or more,

THAT’S very like the sea.

Beat a dog ’til it howls outright –

Cruel, but all very well for a spree:

Suppose that he did so day and night,

THAT would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids;

Tens of thousands passed by me –

All leading children with wooden spades,

And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood?

Who was it cut them out of the wood?

None, I think, but an idiot could –

Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt to float

With ‘thoughts as boundless, and souls as free’

But suppose you are very unwell in the boat,

How do you like the Sea?

There is an insect that people avoid

(Whence is derived the verb ‘to flee’)

Where have you been by it most annoyed?

In lodgings by the Sea.

If you like your coffee with sand for dregs,

A decided hint of salt in your tea,

And a fishy taste in the very eggs –

By all means choose the Sea.

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,

You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,

And a chronic state of wet in your feet,

Then – I recommend the Sea.

For I have friends who dwell by the coast –

Pleasant friends they are to me!

It is when I am with them I wonder the most

That anyone likes the Sea.

They take me a walk, though tired and stiff,

To climb the heights I madly agree;

And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,

They kindly suggest the Sea.

I try the rocks, and I think it cool

That they laugh with such an excess of glee,

As I heavily slip into every pool

That skirts the cold cold Sea.

August

by Boris Pasternak

This was its promise, held to faithfully:

The early morning came in this way

Until the angle of its saffron beam

Between the curtains and the sofa lay.

And with its ochre heat spread across

The village houses, and the nearby wood,

Upon my bed and on my dampened pillow

And to the corner where the bookcase stood.

Then I recalled the reason why my pillow

Had been so dampened by those tears that fell —

I’d dreamt I saw you coming one by one

Across the wood to wish me your farewell.

You came in ones and twos, a straggling crowd;

Then suddenly someone mentioned a word:

It was the sixth of August, by Old Style,

And the Transfiguration of our Lord.

For from Mount Tabor usually this day

There comes light without a flame to shine,

And autumn draws all eyes upon itself

As clear and unmistaken as a sign.

But you came forward through the tiny, stripped

The pauperly and trembling alder grove,

Into the graveyard’s, russet-red,

Which, like stamped gingerbread, lay there and glowed.

And with the silence of those treetops

Was neighbour only the promising sky

And in the echoed crowing of the cock

The distances and distances rang by:

Then in the churchyard underneath the trees,

Like some surveyor from the government

Death gazed on my pale face to estimate

How large a grave would suit my measurement.

All those who stood there could distinctly hear

A quiet voice emerge from where I lay:

The voice was mine, my past, my prophetic words

That sounded now, unsullied by decay:

‘Farewell, wonder of azure and of gold

Surrounding the Transfiguration’s power:

Assuage now with with a woman’s caress

The bitterness of my predestined hour!

‘Farewell timeless expanse of passing years!

Farewell, woman who flung your challenge steeled

Against the abyss of humanitarians:

For it is I who am your battlefield!

‘Farewell, you span of open wings outspread;

The voluntary obstinacy of flight,

O figure of the world revealed in speech,

Creative genius, wonder-working might!